


I Believe

by amutemockingjay



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe--Victorian dystopia, Alternate Universe--Witches and Magic, Angst, Eliza fights the patriarchy, F/M, Gen, LGBTQ Character, M/M, Slow Build, more tags to be added later, possible smut ahead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-25 12:35:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7533037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amutemockingjay/pseuds/amutemockingjay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New England, 1892. Eliza Schuyler, a young witch with an affinity for healing magic, is in grave danger. Cloistered in a convent to keep her and her sisters safe from a fascist rule that aims to eliminate all witches, Eliza struggles with a deadly secret that could bring her entire world to ruin. Enter Alexander Hamilton, the young, scrappy, and hungry resistant reporter who aims to bring down the oppressive government once and for all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Intentions

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! Here I am, back at it again with the weird AUs. Technically, this AU takes place in the world of the Cahill Witch Chronciles, HOWEVER, you don't need to know anything about the books to read this. Everything will be explained, I promise. Just think of it as a dystopic, magical Victorian AU. This also has some heavy Spring Awakening influence. The POV will alternate each chapter between Eliza and Hamilton. Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

New London, New England, 1892

She was running. Hems torn, slippers ripped, cloak hood at her shoulders, her hair in a snarl. The autumn wind howled a mournful cry that was so plaintive and full of yearning that she wanted to stop and ask nature itself what it demanded of her. But she couldn’t. Couldn’t because she was running for her life, for her sisters’ lives. Magic spent, her hands cut with glass from broken windows.

“Seize her!”

She could hear them gaining on her. The Brothers. The Brotherhood, with all its rules and strictures and its relentless persecution of any woman who even smacked of freedom—or witchery. And she was guilty. Guilty, guilty, guilty. Eliza didn’t care much what happened to her; it was what would happen to Angelica and Peggy that mattered.

 _You’re the one_ , the voice in her mind reminded her. _The dangerous one_.

Though her sisters were witches, too, it was Eliza that carried with her the terrible secret, the burden, the ability to destroy everything she held dearest in the world.

“Witch!” The one Brother she had seen around the corner multiplied into four, into six. All with their hooded black robes, all with the same sneer of hatred on hardened features. Six men against a sixteen year old girl.

A sixteen year old with more power than she could dare use. If only her magic wasn’t spent. If only she could run further. If only she could have made it to the convent. At least her sisters were safe. Safe in their beds at the Sisters’ convent, their only haven.

“Take all three of them.” The tallest Brother pointed a chubby finger towards the square.

Eliza blinked in confusion, far too lost and drained to fight back the way she knew she should have. “You must be mistaken, sir. I am alone.”

The Brother slapped her, so hard that she saw stars. “No one gave you permission to speak, witch.” He nodded towards one of his comrades. “Bring the others.”

The Brothers parted to reveal Peggy and Angelica, both unconscious, both with their hands bound and mouths gagged. Eliza wanted to scream. Not her sisters. What had been done to them, to render them so helpless?

“What do you want me to do with them, Brother Nils?”

Brother Nils narrowed his dull brown eyes. “Burn them.”

* * *

 

Eliza awoke screaming. She had a brief, disconcerting moment where she didn’t know where she was, where her mind was still in her nightmare, where she was helpless to watch her sisters tortured at the Brothers’ hands.

She buried her face in her pillow, inhaling the scent of Angelica’s orange blossom water that seemed to permeate every part of their shared room at the convent. They were safe. She was safe. There was no chase, no Brothers, no one except the other girls at the convent who knew that she was a witch.

The Sisterhood held its own closely guarded secret: on the outside, they were pious, charitable, the female arm of the Brotherhood who reached out to the poor, the sick, the downtrodden. Often the Sisters would be seen throughout New London, serving as nurses at the local hospital, bringing baskets of food to the needy, educating orphan girls in their elite boarding schools and convents. But the secret that every Sister held onto until their dying day was one that could unravel the entire organization: the Sisterhood was comprised of witches. And if their secret was discovered, the Brotherhood would ruin everything—they could expect hard labor on a prison ship off the coast of New England, imprisonment at the terrifying Harwood Asylum, or death itself, by hanging or burning.

To say that Eliza lived in terror was an understatement. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and got up, pulling back the velvet drapes to reveal the full moon. She wanted so much more than a life in a convent. What, she wasn’t exactly certain. She was sixteen; in a month she would have her intention ceremony, where she would either choose marriage, or the Sisterhood. She wanted neither. For Angelica, now eighteen, the choice had been easy: the Sisterhood had enough educational materials to keep her busy for years. Brilliant at illusions and glamour spells, she relished training to be a governess, or even a teacher at one of the convent schools, instructing young girls in their newfound magical powers.

“’Liza?” Angelica raised a sleepy head from her pillow.

Instantly, Eliza moved away from the window and crawled back into bed. “I’m fine, Angelica. Go back to sleep.”

Angelica sat up, rubbing her eyes. “I heard screaming.”

“It was just a nightmare. Nothing to worry about.”

At this, Angelica got up and sat on her sister’s bed. “A nightmare?”

“Really, ‘Gelica, it’s nothing.”

Angelica reached for the hairbrush on Eliza’s end table. ‘Sit up.” Eliza obeyed. Angelica began to brush out the tangles in her long, dark hair. Eliza tipped her head back, soothed by the gesture.

“Are you worried about your intention ceremony?” Angelica gently worked out a tangle in Eliza’s hair. “It shouldn’t be too difficult a choice.”

Eliza’s shoulders slumped. She wished she had the ease of words that Angelica did, that she had the courage and bravery to speak what really ran through her mind. But she didn’t.

“I don’t know,” she said, the lie tripping over her tongue. She wanted to tell Angelica the secrets that held her down, that weighed her heart and threatened to shatter it into a thousand pieces. But she had promised Sister Cora that she would not mention the prophecy. Not yet, at least. Not until after her intention ceremony.

“Much better.” Angelica finished brushing her hair, and Eliza gave her a grateful smile.

“Thank you, ‘Gelica.”

Angelica reached over and kissed her on the temple. “Anytime, ‘Liza.”

“Angelica?” Something made Eliza want to reach out, to confide in her older sister about the danger they were in, as witches and women, and the subject of the prophecy, the one Eliza could barely admit to herself.

“Yes?”

But then she lost her courage. She needed to protect her sisters. Keep them safe, away from the Brothers, away from the deadly consequences of the prophecy. And the only way she knew how to do that was to keep silent. The truth was enough to break her, and she could stand to watch her sisters break along with her. Better if she did alone. Better if they were ignorant.

“Never mind,” she murmured, crawling back into the covers.

Angelica’s voice floated at her across the room, from her own bed. “Good night, Eliza.”

“Good night, Angelica.”

She closed her eyes and prayed. Prayed that her sisters would remain safe, cloistered in the Sisterhood. Prayed that the prophecy was not about them, but instead another trio of sisters altogether. Prayed until her thoughts swept into monosyllables, and she wondered again if the Lord would even hear her, even take into consideration the pleas of a witch.

After all, the Brothers taught that witches were wicked at their very core. Surely the Lord listened not to pleas of the wicked.

* * *

 

She could barely stay awake at breakfast. Stifling a yawn behind her hand, she looked out at the array of food, appetite completely gone. Her stomach churned; she could barely take a bite of her toast. Next to her, Peggy crunched on a crispy piece of bacon and side eyed Eliza with worry.

“Are you all right?” She asked Eliza in between bites.

Eliza tried to swallow around the lump in her throat. Her voice came out low and raspy. “Fine,” she managed to say. “Just fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” Peggy raised an arched eyebrow.

“Just didn’t get much sleep last night, that’s all.” She hated lying to her sisters, even if Sister Cora did convince her that it was the only way to protect them.

Peggy hardly looked convinced; she opened her mouth to speak again but was cut off by Sybil Ludington, who approached Eliza, out of breath and hair askew. She looked like she had been running the length of the convent, which knowing Sybil, was more likely than not.

“Eliza,” Sybil said. “Sister Cora wishes to see you as soon as you’ve finished breakfast.”

Eliza pushed back her chair. Dread settled down in soles of her feet, in the depths of her heart. What could Sister Cora possibly want, so close to her intention ceremony?

“I’ll be right there,” Eliza said.

“But Eliza—“ Peggy began and Eliza shook her head.

“Don’t worry about it, Pegs. I’ll catch up with you and Angelica later.”

As Eliza approached Sister Cora’s study, her skirts rustling under layers of petticoats, she could feel her nerves get the best of her. Usually the only time she saw Sister Cora was when it had to do with the prophecy, or her own terrifying abilities, that she could barely name to herself.

She knocked softly on the oak door.

“Come in.”

Eliza pushed open the door. Sister Cora sat in a high-backed chair, her silvery hair in a chignon at the nape of her neck.

“Elizabeth.” Sister Cora motioned towards a chair opposite. “Come, sit.”

Eliza did as she was told, settling her skirts around her. “Good morning, Sister Cora.”

“Would you like some tea?” Sister Cora indicated the beautiful flowered teapot that sat low on a table between the two chairs.

“No, thank you.” Eliza could hear the stiffness and fear in her tone, and tried to relax. Sister Cora wasn’t the enemy here, she knew that. But she was in charge of the entire convent, responsible for all the girls.

Sister Cora poured herself a warm cup of tea and looked over the rim of the cup straight at Eliza. Her cornflower blue eyes were full of life, despite her old age. “Your intention ceremony is coming up, isn’t it, Elizabeth?”

Eliza nodded. “Six weeks now.”

Sister Cora put down the cup. “Have you given any thought as to what you may decide?”

As if Eliza hadn’t been sick with worry the past month, wondering what she could possibly do to escape her fate. “I’m not entirely certain what I wish,” she admitted.

A life without the Sisterhood, a life to live on her own terms—she could only dream of such freedoms. Were she to leave the Sisterhood, her only other option was to be married and raise a family. And she knew no such young men that would let her do as she pleased. After all, the Brotherhood taught that women were frail, vain, silly creatures that needed to be ruled by a husband. Tamed. Stuck in a gilded cage with no way out.

“Well,” Sister Cora put down her cup, “The Sisterhood would keep you and your sisters safe, if you are indeed the subject of the last prophecy.”

Eliza tried to take a breath. It always came down to the damned prophecy. The last prophecy ever made by the witches, before the Brotherhood destroyed every last remnant of their lives over one hundred years ago. Any witches that survived the purge went into hiding, many joining the Sisterhood. But the prophecy still loomed. She didn’t know how to tell Sister Cora how stifled she felt, locked up in the cloister. How much she longed for a life she knew she could never have.

“We might not be,” Eliza said meekly.

“Might not be,” Sister Cora echoed. “But the last prophecy specifically mentions a trio of sisters, one of whom is capable of mind magic, all of whom come of age at the turn of the century. And with your ability—“

“It’s not ability,” Eliza said automatically, without thinking. “Mind magic is a curse.”

Mind magic, the ability to invade another’s mind, to influence their actions, to take control of them from the inside, to erase memories, was, in Eliza’s opinion, the darkest magic in existence. The fact that she was capable of it made her feel sick at her very core. She wanted no part in altering the lives of others. Even if for a good cause. The day she had found out she was capable of such magic, she had been horrified, and vowed she would only use to protect Angelica or Peggy.

“I wish you would not see mind magic in such a negative light, Elizabeth. Truly, it can be used for good.”

“I want no part in it.” Eliza shook her head.

She could feel, rather than hear Sister Cora sigh. There was a clink of china as she rested her teacup on its saucer. “Please give your intention some thought, Elizabeth. Think of what is best for your sisters. If you are indeed the sisters of the prophecy, the Sisterhood would be the safest place for you.”

Eliza stood up. “I’ll be sure to take that into consideration, Sister Cora.”

“Excellent. You are free to go, Elizabeth.”

As Eliza left Sister Cora’s study, she couldn’t help but feel as though there was something she wasn’t getting, a vital piece of information that was being held back. For the first time since she ended up at the convent at the age of twelve, she wasn’t entirely certain if she could trust her future to the Sisterhood at all.

* * *

 

Healing class was the one place Eliza knew how to find herself. Her magic manifested at the age of eleven, and she had always found herself hopeless at glamour and illusion. She was no Angelica, to whom magic came quickly and easily. She always had to work to cast, put forth all of her energy and power for the simplest of spells. And then she had her first class in healing magic.

Healing was not for the faint of heart. There were physical side effects; magic was spent more easily, and took more power. But from that first moment, when her power had flared to a strength she had never seen before, she knew that she was meant to be a healer. She had excelled under Sister Sophia’s gentle tutelage to become the best pupil in the class. She looked forward to class, to honing her skills as a healer, but she looked forward to the healing missions even more.

Weekly missions to Harwood and the hospital, where they could subtly help out those who suffered. They couldn’t cure—though Eliza knew she had the power to cure at the tips of her fingers, it would give away their magic if they did as much. Instead, the healing class did what they could to ease the pain and suffering in a way that looked totally natural.

Today, they were headed to the hospital in New London. Six girls, and Sister Sophia leading the charge, all crowded into a carriage, all adorned in Sisterly black dresses.

“Eliza?”

Eliza blinked, startled out of her stupor. She had still been mentally rewinding her conversation with Sister Cora. She got the feeling there were a lot of words before that “Eliza.”  Peggy’s best friend and roommate, Maria Lewis, was addressing her. Usually girls of Maria and Peggy’s age were not permitted on healing missions. But Maria had shown such promise, being the only fourteen year old in Advanced Healing, that Sister Sophia had allowed her to come along on this trip.

“Yes?”

“You look a little pale.” Maria reached over and squeezed her hand. Eliza could feel the magic flare up between the two of them.

“Just a little tired, that’s all.” Eliza looked out the carriage window, at New London passing them by.

“Peggy’s worried, you know.”

The carriage bumped against rough cobblestones. “There’s nothing to be worried about, truly.” She wondered how many times she would have to repeat the lie until it sounded true.

Maria sat back in her seat, so small compared to the other girls.

“I’ll declare my intention soon enough, and everything will be fine.” The carriage stopped in front of the hospital, and the girls hopped out, one by one, looking like ravens in their dark dresses against a gloomy autumn day.

She entered the hospital, taking in the orderly chaos. Most of the wealthier citizens of New London preferred private doctors that visited them at home. The hospital was for the poor. It was here, in the scrubbed halls and crisp white sheets that Eliza could find herself again, let all of her own petty worries go as she focused on those who needed hope more than anything.

That was when she saw him. Sitting on a plain wooden chair, next to the bedside of another man. His dark hair pulled in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. Dark brown eyes, mouth murmuring words she couldn’t quite make out. Eliza walked as though she were in a dream, there but not there, drawn to him in the most powerful of ways.

“Hello,” she said softly, and he startled, looking up from the inept man in the bed.

“Good day, Sister.” He stopped holding hands with the man on the bed and his eyes, those dark beautiful eyes that so entranced her, glazed over.

“Not Sister,” she corrected. “Not yet, at least.”

“We don’t need your prayers,” he said shortly, and she felt a stab of pain in her heart at his words.

“I’m not here to give them,” she replied, “Unless you wish me to.”

“Then what are you here for?”

You, she wanted to say, but didn’t dare. He was a stranger, she didn’t even know his name. But she wanted, for the first time in her life, to know him in a way that was surely far from decent and proper.

“I’m a nurse,” she said. “What ails him?”

 “Laurens has scarlet fever, the fever has yet to break,” he replied.

“Let me get a cool compress for his forehead,” she said, departing and returning with a cloth soaked in ice water. She placed it on his forehead, and took his clammy hand in her own.

She could feel the magic under her skin, pulsing, begging to be released. She could feel his sickness, too, the fever that left him weak and fatigued, the sore throat that left him raw. She pushed against his fever with the power of magic, giving too much, she knew it was too much, but she couldn’t stop herself. The magic flared, setting her mind on fire with possibilities. Her head spun. She could feel the fever break, the sweat pooling on his forehead. Dizzy and nauseous, she broke contact and forced herself to take a deep breath. If she had pushed herself any further, she would have been sick all over the bed, and given everything away. Reckless. She was far too reckless.

 “I’m Elizabeth Schuyler,” she said breathlessly, to the boy in the wooden chair.

“Alexander Hamilton,” he said. In one smooth motion he took her hand and pressed the tips of her fingers to his lips. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“My friends usually call me Eliza.”

“I should be honored to consider myself among them, Eliza.” He had a beautiful smile, and she felt her heart beating faster, the blood thrumming in her veins.

“I am sorry for us to meet under such circumstances.” She imagined running into Alexander somewhere else, in the city perhaps, but she knew it would never happen. She never left the convent unless she was on Sisterhood business, either nursing the sick, or delivering weekly rations to the poor.

“As am I,” he replied. “Are you intending to become a Sister?”

Eliza shook her head. “My intention ceremony is not for a few weeks yet, and I’m still considering all options. Tell me, what is it you do?”

“I’m a student at the university. Both Laurens and I.”

Eliza felt a stab of envy. Women were not permitted to study at the university under the Brotherhood’s strict moral codes. “What do you study?”

“Law,” he replied.

“That must be fascinating,” she said breathlessly. She was lucky she even learned how to read; her own dearly departed mother had a love of books that she passed onto her daughters. “Where’s your family from?”

Alexander shrugged his shoulders. “Not important, there’s a million things I haven’t done.”

“Eliza!” Maria came running towards her, her bell shaped skirts rustling with all the movement. “What are you doing in this ward? You know it’s forbidden to tend to men.”

Eliza flushed scarlet without meaning to. “My apologies,” she said to Alexander. “I shouldn’t have intruded.”

Maria was tugging on her sleeve. Eliza stood up.

“Eliza?” There was passion in his brown eyes, lit up for her, and she felt her heart skip a beat.

“Yes?”

“May I call on you sometime?”

“Eliza!” Maria was pulling her along. “We’re going to get into so much trouble if we’re caught here.”

“Yes,” she said to Alexander, before being dragged out of sight completely.

The rest of her time in the hospital went by in a messy blur. Tending to the ill, using her magic in the most subtle of ways. But her mind was downstairs, in the men’s ward, with Alexander Hamilton. A million things he hadn’t done. She wanted to be part of his world, to put herself in the narrative.

For the first time in a long while, Eliza felt certain of something other than a future with the Sisters. But the truth hit her with a terrifying thought.

Alexander Hamilton, handsome, brilliant Alexander Hamilton, could never love a witch like her.


	2. Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander Hamilton was in deep shit, and he knew it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this, as well as my other fics, may be updated a little more sporadically because next month I'm working on a writing challenge with a friend! But thank you for all the lovely kudos, and let me know what you think in the comments!

Alexander Hamilton was in deep shit, and he knew it. Not just because Laurens was ill. But because he had, yet again, bitten off more than he could chew.

In between classes at the university, a part-time job at George Washington’s bookshop, and, of course, the Resistance meetings there was barely enough time to breathe, let alone stop and take a break. The Resistance met in Washington’s shop, once a week at half-past midnight. Their true leader, Alastair Merriweather, owner and publisher of the Resistance newsletter the _Gazette_ , was currently in hiding, so Washington ran the meetings. His Cabinet, he referred to them as. And Alexander was his right-hand man.

The autumn wind nipped at his heels as he made his way through the deserted streets. He checked his pocket watch. 12.15. He was nothing if obsessively punctual. Unlike some people he could mention.

“Jefferson,” he muttered under his breath, not caring that he would look quite mad, talking to himself and wandering the New London streets at this hour.

He arrived at Washington’s shuttered shop, and pulled the key from his pocket. The meetings took place in the hidden coal cellar under the shop itself. Washington had tried to make it seem cozy, with a round table, chairs, and a little rug, but Alexander only felt claustrophobic.

He entered the deserted shop, taking in as always the shelves piled with books. The Brothers often suspected that Washington sold banned books, and they were right, but they were kept well hidden. Alexander felt a sacredness in the shop, in the presence of so much knowledge. Knowledge had been his only ticket out of hell and to New London. He hadn’t known he was in for a whole ‘nother level of hell under the strict leadership of the Brotherhood. Anything seemed better than wasting away on St. Croix.

He pulled back the patterned rug that hid the cellar door. In the dark, with only a lantern for light, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling of eeriness.

“Mon ami!” Lafayette was the first to jump from his chair and throw his arms around Alexander’s neck.

“Laf, I saw you this morning.”

“When is he not overly enthusiastic?” Came the other voice. Hercules Mulligan had his feet on the table, and drew them back when he saw Alexander approach. The tailor turned spy seemed to dwarf all of the furniture in the room.

“Point taken,” Alexander said.

“And how is our dear friend Laurens?” Lafayette asked.

Alexander felt the familiar knot of worry in the pit of his stomach, and he found himself short of breath. He could never imagine his life without Laurens, not at all, and his brush with illness had Alexander panicked in a way that he would never admit to his other friends. “He’s still in the hospital. But his fever broke.”

“That’s excellent news, mon petit lion.”

Alexander ran a hand through his messy hair. He wanted to tell his friends about Eliza, about the unspeakable attraction he had felt towards her. How he wanted to call on her. He usually had no filter whatsoever, and would have blurted out the news instantly, but something held him back. Was it Eliza herself, possibly soon to be Sister Eliza?

The Resistance was hopelessly divided on what to do with Sisterhood, when they would overthrow the Brotherhood for good. Some, Alexander included, voted for leniency; women were oppressed under the Brotherhood regardless of their profession. Others, such as Jefferson, wanted harsher punishments for those who collaborated with the Brothers, and viewed the Sisters as those collaborators, despite their lack of power in the fabric of society.

The door to the cellar opened again, and a pair of feet descended the wobbly wooden staircase. Instantly, all three of them jumped to attention.

“Washington, sir.” Alexander stood stock-still.

“At ease, all of you.” Washington had the air of a general and undisputed leadership. Were there anyone to lead them to victory over the Brothers, it would be him. “Where’s Jefferson? And Madison?”

“I have no idea, sir.” Alexander did not resist the urge to roll his eyes. Honestly, the whole Resistance would be better off without that scheming prick, but Washington seemed to value Jefferson’s opinion for some reason Alexander could not fathom.

Washington frowned. Like Alexander, he valued promptness. He pulled a pocket watch from his crisp suit. “We’ll give them a few more moments, then we’ll start without them, loathe as I am to do so. Hamilton, how is Laurens?”

“Doing much better, sir.”

“Excellent. We could never lose such a valuable member of our organization.”

Alexander nodded. Hercules may have been their spy on the inside, with his profession as tailor to the Brothers on the National Council, but John Laurens provided equally as important information: his father, Henry Laurens, lined the Brothers’ coffers quite richly. There was no love lost between father and son, but John put the Resistance above his own suffering. A noble sacrifice if there ever was one, and one that Alexander knew he could never do. He was too loud, too brash, too much.

“I have arrived!” Jefferson ran down the stairs two at a time, his purple frock coat trailing behind. Madison was hot on his heels.

“Announcing your presence every time you enter a room really isn’t necessary,” Alexander pointed out.

“Of course it is,” Jefferson replied. “How else will anyone know that I’m here?”

“Your coat could do the talking for you, it’s so vibrant. Try not to blind us all.”

“You’re not much better, Hamilton. Dressing like royalty, like the new money you wish you were—“

“Jefferson—“ Hamilton started, and Washington cut him off with a single gesture.

“Enough. Take your seats, and let’s get started.”

All of them sat around the table, Washington at the head, Jefferson and Madison at one end, Lafayette in the middle, and Alexander and Mulligan at the far end. Even if they were united for a single cause, he insisted on being as far away from Jefferson as possible.

Washington shuffled some papers. “Our latest issue of the Gazette is on its way to being printed now. Special thanks to Hamilton for his insightful contributions.”

Jefferson glowered. Beyond his very first article on the necessity of freedom and independence, his works had never been picked by either Washington or Merriweather to be featured in the Gazette. Hamilton, by contrast, was non-stop, cranking out six articles per week.

“There is a matter I wish to bring up for discussion,” Washington continued. “Our intelligence remains solely dealing with the Brotherhood and their increasingly oppressive edicts. Thanks to both Mulligan and Laurens, we have a significant idea of what’s going on. But I propose we extend our network to include the Sisterhood. This matter will not be settled by vote. All you have to do is convince me.”

Instantly, Jefferson’s hand shot up in the air.

“Yes, Thomas?”

“I oppose this measure wholeheartedly.”

“How?” Hamilton practically shot out of his seat. “If we have our numbers within the Brotherhood, it only makes sense to close ranks on the Sisterhood, too.”

“The Sisterhood has nothing to offer. We need to secure our rights as men before we even think about women. Focusing on the Sisterhood and women and the persecution of witches does nothing to further our goals of full independence for all men across New England.”  Jefferson held his head high, and it took all of Alexander’s self control not to strangle him with his own frilly cravat.

“That’s a bunch of bullshit, and you know it,” Alexander shot back. “If we’re fighting for equal rights, we should fight for equality for all. Regardless of gender, identity, or ethnicity.”

“You’re speaking with idealism, Hamilton. Don’t blame me for wanting to be pragmatic,” Jefferson replied. “Not everyone will rally behind women and witches the way you do.”

“Be that as it may, Thomas, I am not entirely convinced the idea is without merit,” Washington mused.

“Sir, if I may—“ Alexander broke in.

“Of course. Go ahead, Hamilton.”

“I believe there is a great deal of information that can be tapped from within the Sisterhood. Women in our society are only given two options in their meager lives: get married, or become a member of the Sisterhood, married only to the Lord. There have to be women in existence who are not fully satisfied with either choice. The Sisterhood is a stronghold of intelligence; they educate girls in their convent schools. Surely, there would be members of such an organization who would be willing to be involved with our activities. Contrary to what the Brothers teach, women are neither frail, helpless, nor wicked. They are human, and have all the ability of a man to contribute to this world. My hypothesis is that women who feel as though marriage is too limiting a prospect would be attracted to the Sisterhood, and those are the kind of women who we would want among us, making change.” Alexander paused for breath.

Washington nodded, a crisp gesture. “That is exactly what I wanted to consider. Excellent points, Hamilton. I believe we shall try and see what we can do about recruiting a member of the Sisterhood to see our side. Mulligan, what do you think?”

Mulligan opened his mouth to speak, but instantly, Alexander cut him off. “Sir, I know exactly where we can start. I met this Sister—well, she’s not a Sister, not yet—at the hospital where I brought Laurens. She’s…well, she’s incredible. A nurse. And perhaps she could lead us to others who may be sympathetic to our cause.”

“Excellent,” Washington said.

“I asked her if I may call on her, and she said yes,” Alexander added.

“Who is the amazing girl you have your sights set on, mon ami?” Lafayette spoke up for the first time all meeting.

“Elizabeth Schuyler,” he said.

“Schuyler…” Washington mused. “One of the wealthiest men in New London. Due to his wealth the Brothers have a tendency to look the other way, for he’s rumored to have ties with the French and Arabian governments. Three daughters, if I recall correctly. Having Schuyler on our side would be a powerful boost.” He paused and took a breath. “Alexander, do whatever you need to get this Elizabeth Schuyler aligned with us. Woo her, if necessary.”

A conflict of emotions wrestled within Alexander. Eliza was beautiful, and he couldn’t deny the attraction he felt towards her. But then there was Laurens. Enigmatic Laurens, who he knew he couldn’t live his life without. Laurens, with the freckles sprinkled across his face, who lit up when Alexander entered the room. Surely Laurens would understand. He had to.

Alexander took a breath, and tried not to think of betrayal. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”


End file.
